Page 63 of Filthy Rich

His mouth twists. He takes his glass, downs it in a single hard gulp and passes it back to me, eyes flashing.

“I’m not playing with you. Either you turn up in my cabin by eleven, or you’ll have to deal with me in your cabin. Your choice.”

“You’re threatening me now? How romantic.”

He edges closer, that familiar sensual gleam heating up his eyes. “Not at all. It’s just that I get surly when it looks like I may not have what I need.”

“What you need?” I say, intrigued despite myself. “What’s that?”

“Not a whole lot.” His attention drops to my mouth and lingers here. “Water. Air. Food. Your smile.” A pause. “And your slick little pussy swallowing me whole as often as possible.”

My whole face goes up in flames in the most delicious way.

“Lucien,” I say with a quick glance around to make sure no one heard him.

“Don’t be cruel, Ms. Scott. Come to my cabin after the party. Give me what I need.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, too breathless now to offer more than this token resistance.

Flashing me a final pointed glance—so much for vulnerability—he heads back to Mrs. Hooper and touches her on the arm.

“Enjoy the rest of your party.”

“You’re not leaving already, are you?” she cries. You’d think that someone came and took away her lungs or something. “Have a piece of cake, at least. You just got here.”

“Can’t,” he says, softening the blow by giving her a kiss on the cheek that leaves her blushing furiously. “I have work waiting for me in my cabin. We’re closing a deal next week. Good night.”

And he walks off without another glance at either of us. Juniper emits a desolate yap as he goes.

The party continues for another couple hours or so, until Mrs. Hooper wears herself out with schmoozing, dancing and general revelry.

“I can’t thank y’all enough for coming,” she says, raising her champagne glass high in a sweeping toast to everyone present. “Thank you for the birthday wishes and good cheer. Now, if you don’t mind, this old girl needs her beauty sleep. I’m beat!”

This sets off a round of conclusory applause and a steady stream of goodbyes as people leave Mrs. Johnson’s cabin, including us, and members of the ship’s crew arrive for cleanup.

When we get back to Mrs. Hooper’s cabin, she shuts the door with a decisive click, leans against it and closes her eyes for a second as her smile fades. Then her face scrunches and a wave of sadness crosses over her features. Seeing it breaks my heart, because she’s a tough old bird who never cries. At least, not that I’ve ever seen.

She must be thinking about her kids again.

I hesitate, torn between hurrying over to offer a hug and pretending I don’t see anything. Luckily, she quickly opens her eyes, straightens and wipes her expression clean, solving the dilemma for me. I hastily look away, acting as though I’ve seen nothing because I know that’s what her pride demands. I busy myself with gathering my medical supplies for our nightly routine, another round of my own emotions uncomfortably close to the surface.

There must be something in the water here in Venice, boy, I think. Lovely city, but I can’t pretend I’m eager to return. Not if today’s ongoing turmoil is the norm around these parts.

“That was a great party,” I say, gesturing to her chair, grabbing the blood pressure cuff and putting it on her. “And that red velvet cake was fantastic. I wasn’t sure a European chef would know how to cook it, but it was perfect?—”

“It’s okay, honey,” she says tiredly, now taking off her false eyelashes with her free hand. “You don’t have to pretend my birthday party turned out the way I wanted it to.”

It takes me a minute to figure out how to respond without pity. “I know it didn’t, but it was still nice. And you were surrounded by people who love you.”

“Thanks to you, Tam,” she says fondly. “Not my kids. Who are little shits. Always have been. Thank you for being polite enough to pretend otherwise.

“What?”

“Stop pretending. And don’t act so shocked.”

I don’t know whether this is a trapdoor or not, but keeping my mouth shut seems like the best plan, so that’s what I do.

“It’s my own fault,” she continues. “My husband was always away working, and he was an asshole, anyway. And I was so busy trying to look like the perfect mom and make up for all the things I never had when I was a kid that I just spoiled those idiots rotten. Now look where it’s gotten me.”

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